


Established Method

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Caring John, Condoms, Consensual Sex, Crying Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is attentive, John knows what Sherlock needs, John makes it better, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Massage, Mental Health Issues, Overwhelmed Sherlock, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is a Mess, Soft sex, Supportive John, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Top John Watson, soft smut, soothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26312269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “I don't want you feeling that you're a burden on me,” John whispered, taking Sherlock's chin and tilting it so that they could have more eye contact, “Never. I do this because I want to do this. Because I like to take care of you and make you feel better. I don't resent it, I don't think badly of you.” Sherlock looked as though he was about to argue a retort, brow crumpled and mouth parting, but John quickly quietened him by pressing his fingers over Sherlock's lips. They were badly chapped from hours of silent sobbing and gnawing, skin pinched in order to muffle. “And I'm sometimes stunned that someone like you would want to be around someone like me. Boring, dull, jumper-clad John. I'm like the moon compared to your sun. You're fire and dazzling, the source of everything. I'm boring and dependable.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/323666
Comments: 13
Kudos: 109





	Established Method

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a cute, sweet little daydream Kitte had.
> 
> No Non/Dub con in this - but Sherlock is overwhelmed by his massive brain and gets upset and unable to cope. He cries and John helps him through it. There is a little bit of crying during sex but it is not because of no consent. This is a fully agreed relationship and activity that they have developed over months. 
> 
> Sherlock needs comfort and John is the one who he can trust to do that.

John knew it was going to be a danger night hours before he received the text from Mycroft. He was becoming familiar to Sherlock's moods – they fluctuated wildly on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, but John followed them like a dog-eared and well-worn map. Knew when Sherlock was angry or frustrated, when he was happy and giddy with the flush of finishing an exciting case, full of morbidly delightful twists and turns, and sadly, he also knew when Sherlock was turning in on himself.

It started small: Sherlock leaving the shower, after a truly excessive amount of time, without fussing with his abundance of hair products, making his normally pristine, smooth curls go adorably fluffy and wild. Next came the hours of brooding, stoic, almost lifeless silence. The visible stiff tension in his shoulders and spine. A reoccurring retreat into his own mind, with only the occasional anxiety-laden heavy breath to show he was even still conscious and alert.

Then came the tears.

Always silent, always hidden, as though a private shame. Something for Sherlock to endure alone. John sometimes wondered if this was how Sherlock lived through his teenage years of schoolyard bullying. Did he hide away in his room at home or within a dorm room in some fancy boarding school? Buried under a mountain of bedding to shed his tears soundlessly, concealing himself from the tormenting cruelty of other boys? Spending years without a companion to confide in. Nobody but his big brother to protect him.

Sherlock valiantly tried to hide by curling into a ball, attempting to make himself as small as possible, as inoffensive and forgettable as he could, but John knew the routine. Knew the tears were there, had seen them, had heard the congested, quiet, shaky sniffs as Sherlock discreetly wiped his nose on his dressing gown sleeve. Knew that this was his cue.

Walking quietly towards the sofa, John settled on one end Sherlock wasn't and placed the cushion behind his back across his groin, opening his posture in invitation, happy when Sherlock wordlessly turned and lay his head down, “There we are,” John said softly, hands staying away for the moment as he turned on the television, content to let the sounds of the programme wash over them, “You're okay.”

“ _Physically_ , yes,” he mumbled, taking a wet breath and a subtle sniff. Though he frequently detested repeating himself, John had heard the phrase before. Several times before, in fact. Always in response to John’s soothing words. A pattern they had built up over months of awkward trial and error, and one that only cemented the fact Sherlock was down, his way of admitting his stewing, choking emotions. One of the few ways he had to confess to the churning hated mess, which clogged him up and left him feeling raw and vulnerable, like an open wound.

John didn’t respond verbally, merely let him rest there, comforted, he knew, by his body heat alone. There was no need for anything else, not yet. Sherlock needed company and space simultaneously. Needed John to be there, whilst also being distant enough to allow Sherlock the time he needed. Time before the desire for more ultimately grew, as John knew it would. There would be no outward sign to it, though John would know it as if it was a physical being that tapped him on the shoulder. Like a voice would whisper what Sherlock wanted into his ear. John knew and he would willingly supply.

They sat for a while, content with the stillness of the room, only the quiet noise of the television and never-ending bustling life outside of Baker Street to keep them company, until the air, the atmosphere changed. John hushed Sherlock in response and began the next part of their routine, letting his hand trail from Sherlock's limp, warm hand up to his shoulder, a slow, rhythmic movement that neither tickled nor massaged. It was a touch, a gentling start to help Sherlock acclimatise to the sensation. Making laps up and down Sherlock's arm, John hummed softly until Sherlock's posture sagged and he slumped back into relaxation.

It took an hour, or just about, for John to feel, to know, that he could now do and give more, and he slipped the fingers of his free hand through the fuzzy soft curls, playing with them the way he liked, then continuing his light touch across and down his chest to pat where his heart beat, “I dislike this show,” Sherlock whispered in a rumble, despite his eyes being closed and lips limply parted as if in sleep.

John hadn't even been watching it, had been so lost in the sensation of Sherlock's heated skin under his fingers, that it was all he knew, all he cared to know, and hadn't been paying any attention to the TV, at all. Taking the remote from the arm of the sofa, he switched to a radio channel, one that played soft instrumental and folk-y type songs. John enjoyed such music, enjoyed listening to the simple vocals, and he knew that Sherlock did too. Knew it was calm enough that he wouldn't be disgruntled by any pounding bass line or an obnoxious radio host.

Slipping his hand back into Sherlock's curls with a soft soothing hum, John stroked and scratched, threading his digits through each of the curls until Sherlock practically had an afro of brown frizz, before returning to stroke along his throat, his chest and then across his belly and waist. Simply touching and caressing with a purity that John hoped was made all the more wonderful when alongside the gentle sounds of the radio.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open after a minute or two, red and watery, and he stared up at John, turning the moment warmly intimate, “You knew,” he uttered with a hoarse and crackling voice. “Am I really so predictable now? So _obvious_?”

“Only to me,” John smiled with a fond huff of breath as he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead, lingering for just a fraction of a second longer to feel the brow contract in a small, sullen furrow under his lips. “I know you, I know your habits _and_ your moods. I know what you love and hate. I know when you need me and when you don't...” He smoothed a thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone, wiping away the salty track of a tear long fallen. “It's not obvious. Not to anyone else but me.”

The radio station began to play Bach, and John felt Sherlock turn his head, straining to listen to the familiar strings of the cello. John thought perhaps he'd spotted a tightening of Sherlock's eyes as he leaned back up slightly, a memory flashing in his mind, a clingy passing emotion, a raise and churn of nostalgia, and wondered what that meant, what was going on in that glorious head of his. The music was dark and sad, seemed to wrap and coil around them in the semi-quietness of the flat, creating a bubble of fluctuating ambience as John continued to adorn Sherlock's face and hair with his fingers, petting lightly, lovingly.

“Isn’t that... tiresome?” Sherlock questioned around a sigh, eyelids shaking closed and catching just the end of John’s thumb tip with damp, clumpy lashes as it skimmed by a second time. “You are the one person whom I don’t want to bore. I prefer that you find me unpredictable and _mysterious_.” The last word came with a hitching laugh and he winced as it did so, mouth twisting into a self-deprecating sneer. John made sure to erase it with another caress before it had a chance to solidify. “I want you to remain fascinated by me.”

“You _do_ fascinate. You fascinate me daily,” John promised, letting his thumb trail up to Sherlock's hairline and then back down to the corner of his mouth, “You're the most brilliant, wonderful – often frustrating - person I've _ever_ met. Some days I am in _awe_ of you. Sometimes there are moments I just can't believe that you're actually _real_ \--” He blinked, surprised that he had said out loud the things that he'd tried to keep to himself for so long. He didn't want Sherlock feeling like John hero-worshipped him. Even if it was semi-true.

“John... I...” Sherlock began before John cut him off with a hard swallow and a small shake of the head.

“I don't want you feeling that you're a burden on me,” John whispered, taking Sherlock's chin and tilting it so that they could have more eye contact, “ _Never_. I do this because I want to do this. Because I like to take care of you and make you feel better. I _don't_ resent it, I don't think badly of you.” Sherlock looked as though he was about to argue a retort, brow crumpled and mouth parting, but John quickly quietened him by pressing his fingers over Sherlock's lips. They were badly chapped from hours of silent sobbing and gnawing, skin pinched in order to muffle. “And I'm sometimes stunned that someone like _you_ would want to be around someone like _me_. Boring, dull, jumper-clad John. I'm like the moon compared to your sun. You're fire and dazzling, the source of everything. I'm boring and dependable.”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, lips ticked up on a brief, gentle smile as John removed his fingers, “The moon is needed as much as the sun,” he told him, keeping his tone low, the sound of Bach still surrounding them in the still night air. “You can’t be dull. You know how much I despise dullness. I won't have it. You have to be more to attract me. To keep me coming back.” Though his words were arrogant and laced in confidence, Sherlock’s expression of morose didn’t change, only his eyes shifted, sparkling for a second with a familiar energy. "I dismiss anything below my standards."

John leaned to kiss Sherlock on the very tip of his elegant nose, “Ditto. - I will _always_ be here, whether it's to send a text, to protect you in a gun battle or to force you to eat at least one vegetable from your plate. I will always be at your side.”

“Will you?” Sherlock whispered, looking overwhelmed and emotional once more while he sat up, leaving the cushion where it lay as he shuffled over to sit on it, perching sideways across John’s lap. He peered closely into John’s face with narrowed, misty eyes. Examining. Considering. Studying. “You will not bore of me then?”

“ _Never_ ,” John promised, cupping Sherlock's cheek tenderly pushing a gentle peck to the corner of his dubiously shifting mouth. “You're as vital to me as oxygen. Without you, I would wither.” He nudged their noses together, letting them breathe as one for a brief moment. “I'd die without you...”

Sherlock swallowed loudly at that, eyelids lowering, “Don't be ridiculous.That isn’t strictly true,” he said in a mumble. “You are a strong man, John. Strong in mind and in body. In will. I have full confidence that you would be... fine without me.” Reaching up, he pressed several fingers to John’s mouth to prevent protest in a playful mimicry of what John had done to him, and gave a wonky, small smile, shaking his head. “I _know_ it, John. You would be fine. - I, on the other hand, would not do so well, I think. Not well at all. That is why I am so--”

"Worried?" John suggested in a muffled reply.

Grimacing, Sherlock gave a jolting nod, "I suppose 'worried' encapsulates it in it's simplest form, yes."

John brushed his lips against his fingers, tilting and gently shaking his head, and curled his arm around Sherlock's waist. Holding tightly until he let him speak freely and unhindered again, “I was half of a person after the army, I had nothing to live for. There was nothing but _pain_ and nightmares and fear.” He combed Sherlock's hair back and away from his face so he could push their foreheads together. Making sure to retain his gaze. “You stopped all that. Gave me a reason to live again, gave me a home and a job and a friend. A _best_ friend. Someone I can rely on and trust. Someone who needs me as much as I need them.” John leaned in for a soft kiss, lingering for a moment, basking in their closeness, before pulling back. “We're two halves of the same coin.”

“That sounds _awfully_ close to some sort of proposal,” Sherlock muttered in light sarcasm, slouching lot more heavily in relaxation, one of his arms looping around John’s shoulders. “I’m tired, John…” He turned his head aside to drop it down, tucking into John’s neck with a quivering exhale and a tickling, feather-light peck just above the collar of his shirt. “It is exhausting doing this as much as I do. _Pointless_. There are no reasons for it. There is no medicine for it, not really. - How can you put up with it, when I barely can?”

“Because this is _you_ ,” John countered in reassurance, stroking up and down Sherlock's side, “Because I care about you, and this is a part of you. I wish you didn't feel so dreadful, I really do, but only because it makes you feel lousy and nothing more. - Even if you were like this every day I would still be here, at your side.”

The talking and sharing emotions was new, but the looseness in Sherlock's form was not, was achingly familiar, and John knew what Sherlock needed next. What he always needed. He nudged at Sherlock's ear, his cheek, so he lifted his head and kissed him lazily, “Ready for bed? I know you're tired, but I think you'd be more settled in the bedroom...”

Sherlock gave a coy, sluggish nod, “Yes. I will be. I always am,” he replied with only the smallest of sullen and shy pouts on his face. They kissed again, twice more, then he slipped off John’s lap and stood beside the sofa, waiting until John joined him, with an arm around his waist again, before he made towards the bedroom. He felt warm and supple, leaning into every synced step so they bumped and touched and dragged against one another. Grounded with the familiar sensation.

Once inside the room, John left the other man's side to switch on the bedside lamp and close the curtains. The change to the lighting made it more intimate and private, less strikingly harsh, and with the music still playing in from the living room, the entire environment became softer still, something far more tender. John returned to Sherlock's side, smiling, then reached for his lovingly worn t-shirt to slowly pull off, running his hands up and along Sherlock's soft skin.

“Beautiful...” he whispered as he pushed another lazy kiss to his clavicle.

“Mm. Put on a bit of weight since the last time,” Sherlock told him idly, watching and waiting. He would only move and aid John in his undressing if prompted. He liked being stripped steadily and by hands not his own. Liked regarding John’s face, his movements, his reactions as each piece of clothing, each barrier between his naked flesh and John’s seeking touch, was taken away. Sherlock was right about the weight, though it was barely anything at all, not as much as John would have liked. He was still too slender in some areas. Skin too taut over bulging muscle and curving bone. "A new scar or two in places."

“Still beautiful,” John responded, smoothing a palm to cradle the back of Sherlock's neck as he could tugged him down to connect their lips once more, this time flicking out his tongue to gently probe. Wetting the seam of Sherlock's mouth until he accepted John in and allowed their tongues to meet for the first time that night. John moaned softly, eyes fluttering closed and other hand stroking Sherlock's abdomen, up to his chest, then low over his hips, unable to stop caressing the velvety skin of Sherlock's body.

He sank into the affection easily and with eager need, arms coming up to encircle about him, plucking at John’s jumper, “Let me see you,” he gasped, sounding close to tears and breathless with emotion. John didn’t fuss or focus on it, knew that Sherlock would react unkindly to such pestering. “John, let me… let me _see_.”

“Slowly,” John hushed and took Sherlock's hands into his own, guiding him to his jumper, to the peeking fabric of his shirt beneath and began to pull them over his stomach and chest.

They took their time with it, unveiling John inch by inch. Exposing the difference between them. Allowing Sherlock's widening, yearning eyes to compare the white, paleness of his own skin to the golden coloured hue of John's. Sherlock's downy, barely there scattering of fine, dark hair to the small amount of honey and grey across John's chest and stomach, a wispy path of it leading down to his waistband and beyond. John throw both to one side carelessly once they were off, there would be time for tidying tomorrow, for cleaning and putting things in order, but not now. Never when Sherlock was this vulnerable and touch starved. Was so openly mesmerised. So overcome with the details, the comparison.

“Better?” he asked seriously, making sure Sherlock was too far gone into his observations as he held Sherlock's hands against his torso, distracting him with the feeling warmth and juddering muscles.

Nodding, Sherlock let out a large, deep sigh of relief, “Much,” he replied in a rush of breath. “Yes. So very much. _Yes_ …” A few tears escaped, glinting in the low light as they clung to his lashes, then fell, rolling down his cheeks to dangle and slip from his chin to paint his chest with a shimmer. "Always."

John felt his heart throb in sympathy at Sherlock's overpowering sentiment. When this had first started, John had been thrown by the tears and the occasional sniffle while he'd touched him, but now he knew better. These unusual reactions, the needy touches, the staring teary eyes, the barely concealed whimpers, were simply Sherlock trying to control, to better understand the emotions flowing through him.

John sighed and shook his head in sweet compassion, “My poor thing,” he whispered, slowly running his knuckles under the soft waistband of Sherlock's pyjamas and feeling a thick, all-consuming pulse of excitement as he admired the miles of perfect, bare skin before him. Then more still when he pushed the trousers down narrow hips and muscled thighs, until he was freeing Sherlock's flaccid cock.

In the beginning, when John had been unused to what Sherlock needed, confusion had arisen by Sherlock's un-aroused state. They'd spent ages the first time kissing and touching one another, John himself had been hard as a rock, leaking steadily into his bottoms, but Sherlock had been more or less entirely limp. It took a few times, and some awkward conversations, before he'd figured it out. Realised Sherlock was different, of course. He didn't work the same way as John. He needed to be brought to hardness with a love and care, the things Sherlock was always so embarrassed about. John had no qualms in doing it then and none now, months in to their change, their growth.

He stroked the tops of Sherlock's trembling upper thighs and slowly knelt, letting his lips trace the line of dark hair from Sherlock's navel down, then mouth at the sensitive inside of his legs, smelling and kissing and caressing each inch. Then John helped Sherlock out of the soft cotton pyjama bottoms, one foot at a time, and adorned his calves, ankles, and the tops of his feet with fleetingly light presses of lips, making sure not to linger for too long. Sherlock’s toes clenched into the carpet under the affectionate worship he loved so much, muscles taut when John returned his attention to knees and thighs, hands slinking around to cup warm, tensing buttocks. The touch was welcome, yet Sherlock still flinched, hypersensitive and thrilled and meekly wanton for each pushing stroke of John’s fingers.

“Sit down for me,” John said, thrilled to see that Sherlock's cock had plumped up somewhat, not exactly half-hard yet definitely more than it had been a little bit earlier. Carefully guiding Sherlock to sit on the edge of bed, shuffling between his legs, still knelt at his feet, he began to gently massage Sherlock's tense legs, his calves, his feet and press a few kisses to his knobbly knees. When he straightened up, John let their lips meet and climbed on the bed, shuffling awkwardly behind Sherlock and into the perfect position, and at the perfect angle, to playfully smooch the back of his neck then run his hands across his chest. “Let's warm you up, hmm?”

Sherlock hummed with a broken, wavering tone, lifting an arm up after a second to wipe at his face, “Yes,” he replied in a fragile voice, giving a sharp, determined and rather confident nod. “Yes. _Please_.”

John trailed soft kisses between Sherlock's shoulder blades and began his familiar pattern on Sherlock's torso. They had developed it together after months of living together and dealing with Sherlock's black moods, through trial and error they had worked out a soothing dance of his hand that was perfect to Sherlock up. With a flat palm, John stroked from nipples to navel, circling gently as he kissed along the line of Sherlock's shoulders, giving the occasional surprising suck and lick before thumbing across Sherlock's now peaked, rosy nipples, watching as he jerked forward as though stung or shocked. It gave John a perverse kind of pleasure watching Sherlock slowly build towards arousal, watching the colour begin to darken across that normally perfectly pale skin as his hands worked, touching and calming and claiming all at once.

Sherlock touched the top of John’s wrist to stop him after a time and turned his head, giving John a wet, vulnerable, pleading look under his floppy, mussed fringe. Taking the prompt, John guided Sherlock down across the bed, plumping the pillow under his head, and petted his white, marble hip as he discarded his own trousers. His socks went with them soon after. Sherlock preferred them to be fully naked with nothing at all separating them, liked seeing all of John, feeling all of John, so he could explore with gaze and crawling fingers whenever he deemed fit to do so. John didn’t mind. It was always warm and comfortable and luxurious in Sherlock’s bed, atop or under the sheets, and against his smooth, smooth body.

“Do you want me to suck you a little?” John asked in a low tone, nosing at Sherlock's stomach. He didn't always want oral stimulation, finding it quite overwhelming most of the time, but there were other times he seemed to like the sensation of growing hard in John's mouth, of watching John tug and suck at the flaccid skin until it was thick and flushed.

Sherlock glanced at the limp, small, length of his penis, and the peeking of his pinked glans from the delicate foreskin, “... Yes,” he answered after some deliberation, breathing calmly and looking as if he might drop off to sleep at any moment. John knew better, of course. Sherlock was tired, mentally exhausted from deluge of emotions that continued to course through him, yet he wouldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until they’d finished their established method.

Shimmying down, he winced a little when his own stiff cock was bent awkwardly against his stomach but soon forgot the slight inconvenience when he reached his destination and eyed Sherlock's pretty shaft. He was a grower, sitting un-intimidating, soft, and inoffensive against the darkness of Sherlock's pubic hair. John swallowed the saliva that had pooled in his mouth at the sight, at what was to come, and gently pecked a tiny kiss to Sherlock's pelvis before he began to litter the short length of him.

Sherlock didn't taste of much, a hint of their fabric softener and a touch of his own special scent combined with the musk of sweat, but it was the greatest aphrodisiac John had ever discovered, could ever need. Carefully hooking it with his tongue, John pulled Sherlock's into his mouth and gave it a light pressured suction, feeling the excess inches of his foreskin, the warmth of his flesh against the roof of his mouth. It was intoxicating to taste and feel.

Sighing happily, Sherlock tilted his head against the pillow, tucked his chin down, causing the comical six chin effect, and watched with a sluggish blink, “I like it,” he admitted in an almost inaudible whisper, arms and hands remaining still at his sides. For now they only twitched in their need to reach out. John knew he would touch soon and he couldn’t wait. Relished the tease of the wait. “I have a few theories as to why, but I also just... _do_. Like how it feels. How you look doing it.”

“It's not something to be ashamed of,” John reassured him, pressing a few kisses to Sherlock's flushing cock, “You _can_ like things just because they feel good. They're even supposed to feel good.” He sucked on the tip of Sherlock, rubbing his tongue against and then within the wrinkled band of foreskin. “I also _like_ to make you feel good. Like seeing that pretty pink across your chest...” He reached up to stroke across Sherlock's clavicle with his thumb as he spoke and shot an eager grin up along the stretch of his slender body. "Like quite a lot, actually."

Sherlock caught hold of his hand, trapping it there, heart racing beneath John’s arm, “There are others. Other things I like. Other things I... _want_ ,” he breathed, one of his thighs shivering as he rolled his hips up against John’s mouth. The soft give of his cock gave way to hardness with a throb, not quite rigid, though getting there. It was a tad quicker than usual, but John wasn’t about to complain. “Not now. Not this moment. But another time. Perhaps...”

John smiled in response, heart surging with strong, dizzying feelings for the silly man who lay blushing beneath him, “Whenever you're ready to tell me. Whatever you want. I'll give it to you,” he promised as he returned to Sherlock's thickening shaft, licking away the first bead of pre-come which had gathered.

“It’s not a necessity,” Sherlock said around a small moan, one of his legs bending at the knee to flop aside to give more access. “I just have been thinking about it. _Quite often_. It is... burned into my brain. It scorches the back of my eyes.” His length increased with a small twitching jolt and he shifted, hands now lifting to reach and rest atop of John’s head, to cup his jaw, to follow and examine where he lay within John’s mouth. Being used to the inspecting invading touch, John allowed his jaw to slacken and held his breath, making sure not to gag when Sherlock grew a few inches more. “I have never wanted something quite like it. I didn’t care for it. Yet I always grow hard at the mere idea. Something I have not done before...”

John had an inkling of what Sherlock might be talking about, but he didn't want to break the spell of this confession, of him expressing himself with something that was normally difficult to talk about. Despite them being sexual with one another for a while, Sherlock was still incredibly diffident and almost innocent when it came to expressing his desires, something John hoped he could assist in ending. It wasn't that John had any aversion to allowing Sherlock an opportunity to experiment in the bedroom – far from it – it was purely that the thought of Sherlock having the patience or confidence to take the lead was something John was avidly desirous for.

He had to admit that he too had other ideas for their bedroom activities. Of being held down under Sherlock's weight and filled and taken. On the few occasions during masturbation, he often thought of Sherlock's hands, of his fingers breaching and stretching him open in a way that nobody else had ever done. He imagined Sherlock's tongue inside him, of the burning stretch as Sherlock pressed himself inside with juddering hips and gasped curses. He envisioned what Sherlock might look like above him, eyes intent and lidded, blanketing him with sweat-slicked flesh and snapping, flexing, rolling hips. 

Returning his focus to the present, phantoms images of his desires ebbing away in the back of his mind, John bobbed his head, humming around the head of Sherlock's stiffening cock and resting his tongue against the frenulum. He circled it then with the point of his tongue, before flattening it out and brushing across the sensitive band of tissue in repetitive, teasing waves. Sherlock's length give a warning throb in reaction and John let it fall from his mouth, careful not to let their evening end too soon without the proper relief that Sherlock craved.

“Tell me. You can have anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was shuddering in arousal when John looked up at him, face, chest and stomach a mottled, dark pink, “ _Anything_ ,” he repeated, lifting and bending his legs up against his torso in blatant invitation. John took it, as he always did, and knelt up to go routing through the bedside drawer for the lube, condoms and tissues, placing them in a neat line and within easy reach of his position on the bed. He enjoyed this part as much as the previous. Greedily savoured the fact he could do it, that he was perhaps the only person to be allowed to do it, or who would ever get the chance. “John…”

Needing nothing more than that to get him going, John squeezed a generous dollop of lube onto his fingers and rubbed at it to chase away the slight chill, “Relax for me,” he breathed using his slicked up thumb to lightly slide between Sherlock's buttocks and trace across the tight whorl of skin, encircling it in order to sensitise Sherlock to the touch. It didn't matter how many times they did this, how many times Sherlock had been on the receiving end of John's gentle touch, he still tensed and held his breath. Waiting and adjusting until all rippling tension shuddered out of him in a rush. “There's a good man.” John praised, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's prominent hipbones.

Sherlock grunted out breathlessly at the praise, pressing his waist up as John bent to kiss prominent hipbones, “ _Slower_. Go slower than is normal. _Please_. And look... look at me.” John always did that anyway. Never took his eyes from Sherlock for more than a few moments at a time. John knew Sherlock liked the eye contact as he was penetrated and stretched and worked open. It did something to him and in turn, did something to John too. "Look right at me. _Into_ me."

John followed his instruction and reduced the trailing of his thumb, pushing a knuckle up towards Sherlock's perineum, spreading the lubricant. His eyes never once left Sherlock's. Not when Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed with pleasure, not when they heard the slam of a car door from outside or the blared sound of a siren. Nothing would take away from the moment. Nothing would distract John from his task, from their intimacy. They were in their little bubble, and it was perfect.

When John's index finger finally pressed in, Sherlock was a hot, shaking, panting mess, hands curled around John’s forearm to follow the movement, to feel the tendons and muscles working under the skin, “ _Yes_ …” he mewled around a wet, shivery brittle gasp, tears falling down the sides of his face as he arched his head back. John continued with a comforting hush, thrusting and pressing and probing first one finger, then two, then three, feeling the prickle of sweat cascade over his scalp and down his back. Sherlock took it, as he always did, rocking very slightly and letting out small, quiet sounds of mounting pleasure under his breath, held back only by his tongue as his lips parted. "Mm, yes."

John's cock ached and leaked against his thigh, tight and hot with ardour, but he ignored it, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock, trying to commit everything to memory as he tickled against Sherlock's prostate, careful not to overwhelm. A trickle of pre-come dripped down the curve of Sherlock's abdomen and hip, caught in the periphery of his gaze. John wanted to clean it with his tongue, wanted to suck and swallow at Sherlock until he was gasping, pleading, begging for relief. Wanted to throw himself on the body under him and partake, relish, and enjoy. Though he didn't. John needed to be in control to ensure Sherlock got what he desired. What he needed. 

“Can I kiss you?” John asked finally, satisfied that Sherlock was ready.

“Of course,” Sherlock whispered, meeting John halfway to meld their lips together. He was pliant and soft and unhurried, tasting John with his tongue when he was given permission, then sucking with a low, breathy, stuttering groan that thrummed through the both of them.

Removing his fingers, John wiped each on some tissue and trailed them up Sherlock's inner thigh, cupping his testicles and teasing the long, raised veins of his shaft, “Are you ready?” he asked, practically vibrating with desire. He knew he couldn't touch the head of Sherlock's cock, it was too sensitive, too much for him, now that he was fully aroused. Instead John stroked and touched everything else that was available to him, every last inch of it. “On your side?”

Enthusiastic, Sherlock nodded and let himself be rolled onto his side, his legs positioned, breathing heavily, “ _Slower_ ,” he said again, clenched, wringing hands pressed against his reddened torso as he waited. He made quite the picture. As he regularly did. John had to take just a moment or two to enjoy it before he grabbed a condom packet and slipped behind him, tucking up and taking hold of Sherlock’s hips to angle him, knowing he liked the handling.

It took John a moment to open the wrapper with his shaky hands and roll it on, and a few more while he gave his cock a swift few tugs to stop the pulsing ache. Although neither were sleeping with anyone else and were clean of any infections, John preferred to use condoms. Condoms helped cut down on the mess. He could wrap it in tissues and dispose of it, unworried about either of them sleeping in the wet spot. There would be a time in the future, he was sure, when they wouldn't bother, when they were perhaps too drunk with want, too keen for marking one another in sweat and semen both, to waste time with coverings. Perhaps in shared showers or stripped mattresses. Up solid walls, rough carpets, or chilly tables. Soon, but not yet.

Adding a little more lube to the stiff latex-clad line of himself, John shuffled further into position, tangling their legs together and bending an arm up as a pillow so he could be closer, have them touching from top to bottom as much as physically, humanly possible. His other hand reached down to align his cock, feeling the heat of Sherlock through the condom as he tentatively touched the tip against the puffed stretched rim, sliding in with tiny increments. He reached around halfway inside and held onto Sherlock's stomach, anchoring and altering them both for an easier glide.

Sherlock was silently still as he moved within, breath held until John’s pelvis bumped against his buttocks and he was fully sheathed, then he moaned and whimpered, low and long, “ _Good_... yes...” he rambled, turning his face into the pillow to breathe into and murmur against, too quiet for John to fully understand. He left him to it, hushing and kissing him, his mouth and nose snugly resting at Sherlock’s nape, tasting the sweat speckling his skin.

Savouring the tensing and fluttering around him, John bit down on his lower lip, "So good," he agreed. Sherlock was fever-hot inside. So enticingly so that John was thankful of the condom, which dulled at least some of the sensations. He carefully pulled out, letting Sherlock feel every ridge and bump of his cock, and then pushed back in again. Grinning when he felt him tense and gasp out loud at the first bump against his prostate. “Just _there_?” John licked a patch on Sherlock's shoulder. “Is that the spot?”

“ _Yes_! Yes, that’s— _Right-there-yes-John-please_!” he whined through sharp intakes of breath and choking, overcome sounds of high pleasure. Sherlock wiggled only once, rocking instinctively back on John for more, then became, more or less, malleable and docile. He wanted John to take over, to be in control, to protect him and have him and comfort him and please him. Drive away his ripping thoughts and suffocating feelings with motion, sensation, and love. "Please."

Slipping a hand to Sherlock's hip, John began rolling his hips, not thrusting, not now, but grinding, pushing on that spot. Sherlock's sounds of pleasure swiftly quieted into whimpers. He had his fingers in his mouth, nibbling and nipping at the ends of them, something John learned very quickly he did whenever he was overwhelmed or lost, particularly in pleasure. It made something primal build up in John, something instinctual and protective, and he rubbed his hands over every place he could, sighing and whispering words of encouragement into Sherlock's ear.

The room smelled of sex and sweat, the only sounds being the wet slap of sweat-shimmering skin against skin and their muffled, bitten back, chocked noises of increasing rapture. It was heady and incredibly arousing, and John couldn't help but want more, continuing to tease pre-come from Sherlock with each rotating grind of his hips. This was always John's favourite part. Where they lost themselves in sensation.

Sherlock's muscles gripped him like a velvet glove. Massaged his length spectacularly, as he reacted in the most delicious of ways, encouraging more movements from John while he half-listened to the low music still filtering in from the living room, pairing it subconsciously with the sounds uttered from Sherlock, gorging himself on both as they merged and heightened to a crescendo, twisting as he was coaxed towards orgasm. They were joined by John's own voice. By his moans and signs. The bursting eagerness that flared inside him, inside them both, growing and building, building, building until he was sure he would almost crack open with it. John could barely hold the pleasure in, could barely breathe, could barely think of anything else but wanting to touch Sherlock, to claim him, to smell him and taste him and reassure him that yes, yes, they would always be together. John didn't care about Sherlock's black moods, he didn't care about the experiments in the teacups or the discrimination against his favourite jumpers. He didn't care about any of that because he had Sherlock. He could hold him, he could touch him and soothe him in a way nobody ever could.

“ _Sherlock_...” John whispered reverently, overcome by his bubbling feelings and forced Sherlock to turn his head so he could nudged their noses together, could keep eye contact. He moved his hand from Sherlock's hip to cradle the man's cheek, their gaze unwavering and their hips undulating in a steady though fervent dance. Getting slower, deeper, their pleasure building until the blaze of affection, of elation began to spill out in the form of kisses, of gasps, of clasping hands.

When he was close, Sherlock reached back to tap John’s thigh and cup his hip, leaving the decision with him, “Mm. John... John, my Boswell,” he purred, right on cue, voice and tone a mixture of husky arousal and breathless affection. The next flow of words was incoherent and foreign, old English and French all intermingled. He often lost himself to the world, to John’s presence. Would praise and worship John with poetry and declarations. "Mon amour!"

“My clever detective,” John moaned in response, kissing every part of Sherlock's face he could reach. “My incredible, clever _friend_.” He reached and cupped Sherlock's cock then, not stroking or moving, merely holding it up against Sherlock's stomach so his own heat-slicked skin could tickle and tease his frenulum, edge him closer to his apex. “You can come whenever you're ready. Take what you need from me, Sherlock. I'll give you it all.”

“John...” he whined, bending his head down and rutting forward, so close to the end that John could almost taste it in the air.

There was a thick dribble of pre-come against the fleshy pad of John's thumb, another when he pushed in with a rotating grind, and then Sherlock grunted, writhed, and began to convulse. He sprayed up the curved, juddering, rosy length of his own chest. He didn’t make much noise through it, only whimpered, gasped, and moaned deep in his throat, overtaken by the rush of intense satisfaction, though John loved it all the same. Resting his forehead against Sherlock's back, he started thrusting into the now relaxed body, spasm of muscles, and fucked into him quick and shallow, avoiding the man's over-sensitive prostate as John chased his own release.

At the start of their strange agreement, John had frequently pulled out to allow Sherlock the time and rest needed from his often intensely shattering orgasms, but had quickly found out that Sherlock wanted John to stay inside him. Liked the thought of being pushed past that sensitivity line until his nerves burned and his body ached. He also rather longingly wanted to experience the feeling of John reaching completion inside him, feeling the throbbing, twitching, hard length of him as he spilled inside the condom. Therefore now, now, John simply followed his instinctual nature. The instinct which was currently telling him to go harder, faster. To give into the need to gasp out loud and cry out Sherlock's name. So he did. He quickened up, he groaned, he panted, he hissed through his teeth, and he scrabbled for Sherlock's hand, grasping, squeezing and knitting their fingers together as he reached his peak. Cried out coarsely as he felt the bright flame inside him explode and came hard with a choked off gasp and a shivering snap of his hips, pushing deep and spilling in thick, hard pulses. Body shaking with the intensity of each spurt.

Once the fizzing climax had ended, John collapsed beside Sherlock and kissed the sharp blades of his shoulders, shaking with exertion, holding him tightly in his arms, “Are you okay?” he questioned, poking Sherlock's heel with his toes.

“Mm, I’m good, John. You know that. You _know_ ,” he whispered in reply, slumped and panting and quaking, his body still contracting about John's buried cock with snug, rippling pressure. It was too much and not enough. John let the waves of pleasure and the rise of afterglow consume him. “This is how I want to be...”

“I know,” John sighed, wishing he could stop the demons that riddled Sherlock's tormented mind. “You'll feel better in the morning. And when you feel terrible again, I'll be right here.” He held Sherlock closer, basking in the warmth of their embrace, until his cock began to soften. With a careful hand, John pinched the base and pulled out, quickly disposing of the condom in the bedroom bin. John gave himself and Sherlock a quick rubdown with the tissues, just to rid them of the worst of their sweat, and grabbed for the large plush duvet which lay beneath them, easing it off the bed only to return to Sherlock's side and pull it over them. John then opened his arms for Sherlock to shuffle into, head was resting on John's chest, and craned down to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. “That thing you wanted to ask me. You can you know... whenever you want. I've thought about it a lot too and wanted it for a while. Feeling you _inside_ me would be...” He felt a throb in his groin and shifted curiously. “Yeah, I think I would like to try.”

Sherlock froze and then tilted enough to peek up at him, “It was that obvious?” he murmured, giving a gusty sigh and running a shaky hand through his fluffed up hair. “I am surely losing my touch if I am _that_ easy to read, if things are that simply deduced.” Going up on his elbow, Sherlock regarded him with sweeping, gentle, sweetly hazy eyes and smiled one of his rare small, happy smiles. John liked them. They were one of the best smiles. “As you know, I’m not a very sexual person. Beyond, um, _this_ , but even this has a reason and a goal. Even this is explained. - I find you very attractive, John. Always have. You make my normally unresponsive body _quite_ reactive. In _many_ ways.” He took a breath, stroked a swirling pattern into the hair on John’s chest and leaned close. “And if you are 'open' to such a thing, if you are aware what it entails, from the both of us, from the situation, and have no qualms, then... perhaps I _will_ ask it of you whenever I want.”

John smiled an eye-crinkling smile and took Sherlock's hand, placing it over his heartbeat, letting the silence overtake them for the briefest moment, “Good, but, I feel I must assure you that it isn't, as you said, a necessity. I won't think any less of you if you change your mind. I won't go funny with you. - Truth of the matter is, you're already within me, inside me. Right _here,_ ” he said, patting Sherlock's knuckles and watching as he blinked. “I er, that is... I have a _lot_ of feelings. _About you_. _For you_. An-and I think that you have the same feelings for me. Or at least I _hope_ you do...” He knew he was rambling. “I do want you to know my body as I know yours. Want you to be the first – _the only_ – to know me that way. But it's not essential for our relationship. Because you're already the only person who has ever made me feel these _feelings--_ ”

“Are you trying to tell me that you love me?” Sherlock breathed with a short laugh and a dazzling, if unsure and wonky, grin. He lifted his eyebrows and leaned closer still, bumping their noses together. “Because I already knew that, John. I already knew and, yes, _of course_ , it’s mutual. Why wouldn’t it be?”

John blushed up to his hairline and gave an equally awkward smile, beginning to giggle, “We're such bloody idiots,” he snorted, pulling Sherlock in for a messy and oddly positioned kiss. “I couldn't not love you, you massive arse. Why would I want anyone else when you're here?”

Sherlock exhaled happily, hands entwining with John's and burying his face into John's chest. His tormented mind now settled, quietened, no longer filled with bursts of chatter and noise, but instead replaced with the steady _thrum-thrum-thrum_ of John's heart. John felt the moment that Sherlock fell asleep, felt the wakeful tension drain from the man's body and his change in breathing.

Looking down at the sleeping face of his lover, of his _partner,_ John knew that everything was going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are going to comment about our decision with the length/description of a character's penis and/or lack thereof; with how submissive/dominant a character seems to be to you; or how a certain character should sound, please don't bother. If you want specifics, want things to fit your interests, then either request a story or move on. 
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